I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubt If one be better with them or without,-- Unless he use them wisely, and indeed, Knows the high art of what and how to read, At learning's fountain it is sweet to drink, But 'tis a nobler privilege to think; And oft from books apart, the thirsting mind May make the nectar which it cannot find, 'T is well to borrow from the good and great; 'T is wise to learn; 't is godlike to create!
CLINTON SCOLLARD. _From 'With Reed and Lyre.' 1886._
From the oriels one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon. In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow. Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long deserted aisles; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look. Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb; He who shepherded his sheep On the wild Sicilian steep, He above whose grave are set Sprays of Roman violet; Poets, sages--all who wrought In the crucible of thought. Day by day as seasons glide On the great eternal tide, Noiselessly they gather thus In the twilight beauteous, Hold communion each with each, Closer than our earthly speech, Till within the east are born Premonitions of the morn!
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. _From the 'Century Magazine,' November, 1885._
A cup of coffee, eggs, and rolls Sustain him on his morning strolls: Unconscious of the passers-by, He trudges on with downcast eye; He wears a queer old hat and coat, Suggestive of a style remote; His manner is preoccupied,-- A shambling gait, from side to side. For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop Is all in vain,--he does not stop. His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves Where musty volumes hide themselves,-- Rare prints of poetry and prose, And quaintly lettered folios,-- Perchance a parchment manuscript, In some forgotten corner slipped, Or monk-illumined missal bound In vellum with brass clasps around; These are the pictured things that throng His mind the while he walks along. A dingy street, a cellar dim, With book-lined walls, suffices him. The dust is white upon his sleeves; He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves With just the same religious look That priests give to the Holy Book. He does not heed the stifling air If so he find a treasure there. He knows rare books, like precious wines, Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines; For him delicious flavors dwell In books as in old Muscatel; He finds in features of the type A clew to prove the grape was ripe. And when he leaves this dismal place, Behold, a smile lights up his face! Upon his cheeks a genial glow,-- Within his hand Boccaccio, A first edition worn with age, "Firenze" on the title-page.